27. Ophelia
OPHELIA
I wake with a start. My mouth is dry, my head foggy, and a headache lingers behind my gritty eyes.
I feel hungover, but I haven’t been drinking.
I’m hot and sticky, and I realize two bodies are pressed in close to me, trapping me in their heat.
I swallow past a dry throat and slowly disentangle myself from the limbs wrapped around me.
In the dim light, I see Cain on one side of me and Mal on the other.
I glance around, looking for Roman, but he’s not here.
My stomach sinks at the realization that he’s crept off while we’re sleeping again. Why does he keep doing that?
My bladder protests when I move. I really need some water and the bathroom.
Carefully getting up from the bed, not wanting to wake the two men, I pad across the room to the bathroom.
I pee first, then turn on the faucet and bend down to drink from it.
On a whim, I grab one of the wrapped toothbrushes from the medicine cabinet behind the mirror above the sink.
I quickly clean my teeth, then splash my face.
Feeling more human, I head back into the bedroom. I pull on one of the guy’s t-shirts—Cain’s, judging from its huge fit—and sneak out the door.
The house is silent. I’m disoriented at first and not sure which way to go. I don’t know this house, and it’s big, with long corridors, and lots of rooms off them.
I check every bedroom, and Roman isn’t in any of them.
I try the door to the master, but it’s still locked, so he hasn’t found a way in there.
He must be downstairs. I flick the hallway light on so I can see to take the stairs.
Darkness has fallen, but I have no idea of the actual time.
I’m feeling adrift, lost, and a little scared.
Despite the three men being with me to protect me, I’ve got a feeling in the pit of my stomach that this is all just a temporary lull in a storm.
It will all be ripped away from me again, and then what will I do?
Where do we go from here? Back to Verona Falls? How? My father isn’t paying my tuition anymore. Even if I had the means to pay them myself, and I don’t, I doubt the dean would let me back.
Shit, this is such a mess. I almost wince at my internal monologue using that word. Shit. I’ve started to get more used to people cursing around me and have automatically picked some of it up myself. It doesn’t feel as forbidden as it once did. In the past, it would have seemed so transgressive.
Sinner.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, my breath hitching in my throat.
You think you can say these words? Do these things without consequence?
A feeling grips me. A fury like I’ve never felt before.
“Fuck off.” The words are loud and clear, and they echo in the sterile downstairs hallway.
I swear I hear the Prophet’s low, diabolical chuckle as if he’s right next to me. I used to hate that dark laugh of his. It always seemed like it contained the depths of hell, right there, in a simple sound.
You can’t make me quiet with a few daring words. Your soul will pay for these offenses. You ought to be careful, little sinner. You weren’t built for eternal torment.
“You don’t scare me anymore.” I say the words with determination. “You’re nothing but a figment of the past. You’re pathetic.”
To my shock, there’s no retort. No comeback. Wow, maybe all it takes is me telling him to shut the hell up? If he’s not real, and he’s part of my mind, then losing my fear of him is the biggest way to silence him for good.
If this version of him is real … well, we’ve all got bigger problems than me losing my marbles. If his voice is real, and he somehow makes me hear his thoughts, he holds more power than any man known to science.
It’s how I know, deep down, that he’s a product of my sick mind, but that scares me more than the idea of him having supernatural powers.
Because if I’m the one creating him, then I must be the one to make him go away, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough.
It’s one thing doing it now, briefly, but being able to continue that level of bravery seems overwhelming.
Bringing my thoughts back to Roman, I continue my search.
I peer into every room, and there’s no sign of him, and with every empty room, my anxiety increases a notch.
My heart picks up speed and my palms grow clammy.
Has he gone? The panic that hits me at the idea is jarring.
If one of them leaves, then this might all fall apart.
I need them. I need them all, Roman included.
I pass through the kitchen. Ahead, another door is slightly ajar. It’s one I’ve not noticed before, and there’s a light on inside. Opening it fully, I peer down a flight of stairs leading to what looks like a basement space. I take the stairs, praying he’s not down here seriously hurt or something.
“Roman?” I say his name, but there’s no answer.
When I step off the stairs and into the basement space, I blink at the brightness of the light. It’s a large room, and it houses a swanky, fully kitted-out home gym. There are mirrors lining one wall, and in front of those are blue mats.
A choked cry forces its way out of my throat as I fully take in the sight in front of me. Roman is curled on his side, on the mats, and his back is a horrible mess of welts. There are bruises forming, and some blood crusting on patches of broken skin.
Oh, Lord, please let him be okay.
I race to him, falling to my knees beside him. I take in the map of pain crisscrossing his skin, and tears well in my eyes. The rope on the floor beside him tells me Roman did this to himself.
But why?
“Roman?” My voice is shaky and cracks a little on the end of the word.
He doesn’t answer, but he’s breathing, deep and regular.
So, I can cross off worrying he’s dead, at least. I’m faint with shock at what he’s done, and what it means about his psyche, but I can’t fall apart.
Not now. This time, one of the men who has supported and helped me, needs me, and I won’t let him down.
“Roman.” I shake him gently on the shoulder, taking care to avoid the skin of his back.
“Hhhmm.” He makes a sleepy sound and stretches a little.
“Roman.” I shake him again. I’m growing fearful that he took some meds or something. Why is he hurting himself like this? Does he want to die?
I think of a day back at the college when he and I were talking about the violence that Cain and Malachi had faced in their childhood.
I had asked Roman if he’d faced the same, and he’d said no, that some things were worse than violence.
I’d understood immediately what he meant, and my heart had broken for him.
It breaks now, all over again.
God, look what they did to you.
“Please wake up.” I beg.
Roman moves onto his back and instantly jolts fully awake. His lips part, and breath rushes out of his mouth in a low, pained moan. He sits, his skin a sheen of sweat, and his breathing ragged as he visibly struggles not to cry out at the pain.
He just rolled over onto his bleeding, welt-covered back. It must hurt a whole lot. I sit down heavily on the mats, facing him, and hope he doesn’t scream at me to get out.
This is private for him.
Our gazes lock, and his is haunted with shame. His body language changes, his bare shoulders curling inward, his chin dipping to his chest. He’s mortified that I found him like this.
I don’t ask him why . I believe I already know.
I understand. The shame he feels for what happened to him as a child must be overwhelming, even though it wasn’t his fault, and the only way to silence that burning pain inside is to make the outside hurt more.
For some reason, I touch the scar on my own face.
I didn’t make the scar, and most of the time I hate it, but some days—on those really bad days—I like it because I think it is my penance for whatever sins I committed.
I know that’s fucked up, but it gives me some insight into what Roman might be feeling right now.
Instead of asking him what’s going on inside, I focus on something easier to talk about initially. The mess he’s made of his outside.
“Will you let me dress some of those wounds?” I ask softly. “I don’t want them to get infected.”
“They won’t.” His words are terse, and he doesn’t meet my eye. “I’ve done it before. It’s not my first time. You weren’t meant to see.”
“Roman, we’re all living together in one house. I think we were going to see.” I keep my tone as neutral as I can. I’m scared that one wrong word or wrong expression will close him off to me for good.
A lot of the time, I move through this world focused on my own pain, and my own fears, but seeing Roman like this pulls me right out of myself. All I care about is him. His pain. His fears. Because he is afraid, I can see it in his eyes. That’s why I’m treading so carefully.
I glance at the rope, discarded to the side. My vision blurs with tears at the sight of the bloodied knots.
“Please let me put some antibiotic lotion on the cuts. I won’t tell the others.”
He laughs, and it’s bitter and dark. “Well, as you say, they’re going to see, aren’t they? Unless we don’t do any more sex stuff.” Turning to look at his back in the mirror, he winces. “I might have gone a bit too far this time.”
To my shock, he smiles. It’s wobbly and a little forlorn, but it’s a smile, at least.
A horrible thought hits me. “Is it me? Has all this crap with me and my family, and what happened at the facility, triggered you? Is being around me so much what made you go too far?”
His face darkens, and regret at my words has me clamping my mouth shut, but it’s too late. So much for approaching this whole situation carefully.
“What? No.” He looks down at the floor as if he’s trying to hide from me.
I cover my hand with my mouth, horrified. “Oh, my God, it is because of all my crap. I can’t be the reason you did this to yourself.”